an old writer and his words

  • AFLOAT

      Dreams are the gentle sea across which we float as night embraces us. This is the preferred view, but in the stormy dark our dreams turn violent tossing us against thoughts we have long suppressed. It is how we row, how we ride he swells, searching for the calm on the horizon that allows…

    Lou Faber

  • THE SHORE

    The sea steals the edge of the shore, replacing it with something familiar and yet different. It is much the same with the waves of sleep that lap at my dreams leaving fractured memories and holes left to fill with desire and imagination. Walking along the shore of dawn and awakening, I feel time creep…

    Lou Faber

  • AMONG ELDERS

    I sit outside, on the mesa having watched the mauve, fuchsia and coral sky finally concede to night. The two orange orbs sit twenty yards away, staring back and in this moment coyote and I have known each other for moments, and for generations, and we are content. Coyote tells me he was once an…

    Lou Faber

  • TO THE SEA

    Today I would like to walk to the river, fashion a boat from a sheet of paper, and set off on it to a far distant sea. Most would think me crazy, but most see only the water flowing by under the bridge, and not the sea that lies out of sight beyond the horizon,…

    Lou Faber

  • DOING THOUGHT TIME

        The hardest prison to escape is the one whose walls are built by the mind in fear and trepidation. It is like the open gate you dare not enter fearing that you are leaving and will not be allowed to return. Atop a pole there are an infinite number of directions in which…

    Lou Faber

  • THE RIVER

    The river, flowing through the heart of the city never pauses to note the cafés and shops lining its banks. The couple in the wine bar look out over the river’s waters but can not imagine the sea. Among them, river, man and woman a thousand stories will go untold.

    Lou Faber

  • CASTLE HARLECH

    High on the battlements of Castle Harlech the winter wind cuts through me like scythes slashing the grasses in the meadows that roll out toward the distant, mute hills. The plaintive cry of bowmen whose bones are dust taken deep into the Welsh soil are whispers lost in the wing sweep of the circling starlings.…

    Lou Faber

  • SEKITO’S GREAT AND SMALL CANON

    This wave touches the shore just as it should. That wave touches the shore just as it should. You may wait an eternity for a wave that touches just not as it should, just as it should not, or you can sit and let the waves wash over you.   A reflection on Case 53…

    Lou Faber

  • NEON

    Tokyo floats on a sea of lights washing to the horizons, whitecaps of neon break the placid surface, golden arches bob like fishing boats awaiting the dawn and the rebirth of life. The urban sea is manned by sailors each in his uniform, some scampering up the rigging, hoisting the sails of steel, concrete and…

    Lou Faber

  • FOR THIS MOMENT

    The sea is calm today not the petulant child thrashing at the harbor leaving her stone tears in the sands. Perhaps it is the sun stroking her dappled skin or perhaps she is merely listening to the whispers of clouds sliding off into the horizon. We don’t question the sea, that is for Jonahs, and…

    Lou Faber